Dad Said No
by nocturnal08
Summary: John Winchester and Sammy fight it out over puppies, soccer practice, debate team and college. Dean, Bobby and Pastor Jim try to keep the peace. Angst ridden.
1. No Puppy

Disclaimer: Winchester universe not mine, but I spend enough time there, you know?

Author's Note: I, obviously, have attention span problems. I can't really believe I'm starting another story when I still haven't finished the first four. Sigh. Oh well.

**Dad Said No**

Dean: "So, what are you saying, Dad was disappointed in you?"  
Sam: "Was? (scoffs) Is. Always has been." _-_ _Bugs_**_  
_**

Chapter 1, No Puppy

It was Bobby's fault really. That's what started the whole thing. If he hadn't placed the squirmy little retriever into Sam's hands, hadn't let the little pink tongue lick away the five-year-old's tears, the little boy wouldn't have gotten attached. It's just that the old hunter never claimed to have a heart of stone, not like some_ fathers_ he knew. And neither did he have much expertise with pups of the human variety.

Dean and John had left Sam at Bobby's for the weekend, doing some introductory hunting that was beyond the kindergartener's capabilities. After being given the dreadful news, Sam had pouted and stomped around until John had made him stand in the corner to think about what a pest he was being.

Tears were shed, but John was inexorable. Only the threat of a swat on the behind kept Sam from throwing an all out tantrum. John gave the sobbing five year old a pat on the head and an order to be good, before he picked up his bag and went out to the car. No trace of his inner turmoil showed on the man's impassive face. Sam was five years old, for crissake. He shouldn't be carrying on like this. John Winchester wouldn't be manipulated by those pitiful, tear filled eyes, even if it made him feel like a monster.

Dean tried next, though he was a little rushed because he knew Dad would not be pleased if he dawdled on the porch. He gave Sam a sympathetic smile and promised that they would be back soon. Sam let himself be pulled into an awkward kind of hug, though his tears didn't stop. He couldn't believe his dad and brother were just abandoning him like this!

"It's not fair!" He wailed into his brother's shoulder.

"Yeah, I know. You get to stay here and have fun while I have to go train with Dad all weekend!" Dean tried. At nine he was an expert in reverse psychology.

Sam was sharper than the average five year old and wasn't at all fooled. He knew that Dean was really excited to go and loved spending time training with John.

"I want to go _with_ you," Sam hiccupped pitifully.

"I know, Sammy. But you're too little; you could get hurt."

"I WANT to go with you!" Sam shouted, unreasonably.

"Well, you can't, Sam," Dean said, hurt that Sam was refusing to listen to him and losing his patience. "Now, stop pouting or I won't let you play with my monster trucks while I'm gone." It was a bribe, they all knew it. Bobby and Dean waited as Sam considered taking the bait. Unfortunately the little boy's pride would not allow it.

"I'M NOT POUTING!" Sam screamed and Dean looked warily at the car, knowing John would have made good on his threat if he heard Sam's bitter outburst. "I DON'T WANT TO PLAY WITH YOUR STUPID TRUCKS!"

"Sam." Bobby stepped in, unwilling to see Dean take that kind of abuse. He put a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "Unless you want to park your behind in that corner again, I suggest you apologize right now and say good bye." Perhaps threats would work better than bribes.

The naughty five-year-old seemed to realize that this was more than fair and muttered an adorable, if begrudging, "Sorry, Dean."

"Bye, Sammy." Dean said, knowing he would miss the annoying little runt.

Dean's patience was rewarded as Sam threw his arms around his big brother in a good bye hug. "Bye, Dean," he said through the tears.

John honked the horn impatiently, summoning his eldest. Dean quickly detached himself and ran to the car.

Bobby watched as Sam swallowed his desolation, though the sentiment was still more than obvious in the boy's large, despondent eyes.

"Do you want to play with your trucks, now?" Bobby asked, uncertainly.

Sam's look of distain would have made Bobby mad if it had been coming from any other than the five year old storm cloud. Yes, this was definitely John Winchester's kid. Before the boy had a chance to mouth off, Bobby raised his eyebrows and did his best to loom. Sammy got the idea, dropping his gaze and saying meekly "No thank you, Bobby."

Bobby's heart melted as the little boy drew in a big breath and sat down on the porch swing, shoving off with his feet before curling up in the corner as the rhythmic creaking began. One hand was wiping away the now silent tears. Bobby had seen pups like this, whimpering and abandoned right after they were taken from their mum. A clock wrapped in a blanket, mimicking the sound of a fellow heartbeat usually helped… though Bobby didn't think that would work with the Winchester's runt. Nope, there was just one way to bring a smile to those desolate eyes. He went out to the garage and scooped up the squirmy little fluff ball that came bounding out to greet him. "Easy there, pup," Bobby soothed.

Sam hadn't moved when Bobby came back to the porch, where the winter sun was quickly receding. Bobby imagined the boy was feeling the chill. Well, he had just the thing to warm him up. Sam's moody eyes lit with interest at the scuffling sound the pup made as the retriever too perked up with curiosity. Bobby sat down beside the little Winchester and plopped the puppy down into Sam's waiting hands. Sam's eyes shone with wonder as he cradled the squirming puppy.

"He's so little," Sam commented, voice tired from crying but seeming delighted. The youngest Winchester wasn't used to there being anyone _littler_ than he was around. The pup set to work washing Sam's face with his warm, rough tongue. Sammy giggled and let him. "What's his name, Bobby?"

Bobby didn't name the pups unless he was sure he was going to keep 'um. Made the separation easier. This one was not destined to stick around forever. His disposition was too gentle for a watch dog and Bob thought he belonged with a family. He scratched the dog's ears. "He doesn't have a name, yet, Sammy."

The pup wriggled with delight at being the center of attention and barked happily when Bobby gave him a playful scratch. He was hardly bigger than Bobby's hand. Sam cradled him carefully in two arms. Seemed that the baby of the Winchester family had a hidden talent; Bobby's little retriever was on the receiving end of Sam's tender, protective touch. The little boy had never had the chance to try out before.

_He'll make a good father someday_, thought Bobby. He hoped the boy would have that chance, though with John Winchester as a father and hunting as a career, that might make things difficult.

When there was no more trace of tears in eyes or voice, Bobby took Sam out to see the puppy's house. Sam was delighted and gently put the puppy to bed, though the mischievous little guy was hardly being cooperative when Sam tried to tuck him in.

The sun was going down, so Bobby whistled for Sam and the little guy obediently came trotting over. Bobby overrode any suggestions that the puppy sleep with Sam tonight. Dogs didn't belong in the house. A little whimpering from both pups was firmly ignored and with a promise to be here tomorrow, Sam said good night and followed Bobby inside.

He washed up like Dean had showed him, chatting the whole while to Bobby about something he had learned in school.

"Plants don't gotta eat, ´cause they can make their own food. From sun and water ´n... carbon dioxide. ´n they make oxygen too, so that we can breathe. Otherwise we'd all die. Like this..." Sam demonstrated by dramatically clutching his throat and faking asphyxiation.

Bobby nodded noncommittally while he scooped out a bowl of mac and cheese, self consciously adding a couple carrot sticks and an apple and pouring a glass of milk. Sam avoided the carrots, eating the apple first and later shoveling in spoonfuls of mac and cheese between the rolling commentaries.

"I have a loose tooth!" he announced. "Dad says that if I eat lots of apples than if might fall out sooner. My teacher at my old school told me about the tooth fairy, but Dad says that's not real but he'll give me a quarter for every tooth anyway, like he does with Dean."

Yep, Bobby didn't have anything to say to that either. He tried to be encouraging, but realized he had failed miserably when Sam let out a disappointed sigh. "When's Dad coming back?" He asked.

"Sunday."

"Oh… how many days is that?"

Bobby cracked a smile. "One and a half."

Sam absorbed the information, falling silent and moving the mac and cheese around his plate with a spoon.

"Eat it, Sam, don't play with it," Bobby ordered.

Sam looked at him with a hint of rebellion. "I'm finished," he tried.

"No you're not," Bobby grunted, not at all intimidated by the five-year-old. Sam sulked for about half a minute, but conceded to eat most of the rest of his dinner.

"May I be excused?" Sam asked, looking to Bobby for permission. Bobby gave the untouched carrots a critical look, but let the kid escape. Sam knew that they didn´t go outside after dark, so he flopped down on the hard wood floor, carefully coloring in his Peter Pan coloring book. He wished Dean were there, ´cause even though Dean usually ruined his attempts to color between the lines, adding things and using weird colors, (AND he made fun of Peter Pan, Sammy thought indignatly) Dean always made things more interesting.

An hour later, the phone rang. Sam perked up, expressing interest, as Bobby answered.

"yello."

"Hey, Bobby, it's John," said Winchester.

"Howdy, how's it going, Johnny?"

"Pretty well, pretty well. Dean's a natural at this stuff." Bobby could here the father's voice swell with pride.

"Yeah, I know. The kid's got great aim." Watching Dean shoot targets was something to behold.

"And you guys? Sammy's not giving you too much trouble, I hope?"

"Not at all, not at all." Bobby paused to call Sam over. "Sam, your daddy's on the phone. Come on over and say hello."

Sammy quickly trotted over to accept the phone. "Hey Dad!" he breathed.

"Hey kiddo. How's it going?"

"It's good, Dad."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Dad." He paused. "Dad? Can we get a dog?"

John barely paused, hoping to nip this idea in the bud. "No, Sam. We can't get a dog." He was glad he wasn't there to see Sam's persuasive pout.

"Why not?" Sam all but wailed.

John saved the _because I said so_ snap because he actual did have a reason this time. "Sam, we move around too much and dogs don't like to ride in the car so much."

"Neither to I!" Sam protested, making John inhale sharply. _Well, there you have it. Apparently I am kinder to dogs than to my own children. _But John didn't really believe that. It just hurt when Sammy implied it.

"Sammy, I said no." John said, hoping to put an end to the discussion. Seriously, he was just calling to check up on the kid, not get into anything with him.

"Did you hear me, young man?" He demanded when Sam lapsed into sullen silence. The dad knew that the threat in his voice would be effective despite the fact he was a state away.

"Yes, sir," Sam complied.

"Good boy. Now, don't give Bobby any trouble, ya hear?"

"Okay, Dad."

"Good night, Sammy."

"Good night, Dad."

Bobby said his good byes and then told Sam to get washed up for bed.

"I have to take a bath?" Sam asked, horrified. This was turning out to be a horrible day.

"Yes," said Bobby.

"But I took a bath _last_ night."

"Kid, you're completely filthy," Bobby said. "Hop to."

"Fine," Sam said, stomping away with more attitude than he would have dared with John.

Sammy had technically never poured his own bath before, though he wasn't about to tell Bobby that. Looking critically at the knobs, he tried to remember how Dean knew how much hot and how much cold. He usually tested it with his hand. Sam turned the first knob, ice cold water spraying satisfyingly fast. Sam shivered at the very thought of it. He tried turning the other knob and soon the water warmed. Then it steamed. Sam put his hand under the faucet and the water was so hot it scalded. He snatched the stinging hand back and decided this was more complicated than he had anticipated.

"Bobby?" came the drawn out plea.

"Yeah." Bobby replied, looking up from his work.

"The water´z too hot."

Bobby gave him a puzzled expression, but in a couple strides he was at the door. He immediately adjusted the water and put in the plug that the five year old had neglected. Somehow, this didn't seem to fill Sam with enthusiasm. The two stood irresolutely in the doorway.

"Sam, go get your jammies." Bobby ordered, taking charge. He dug a clean towel from the chest in the hall. Sam, showing his training, obeyed immediately. He soon reappeared, carrying his dad´s old t-shirt, the one he used as a night shirt. Shedding his filthy jeans and equally dirt covered upper layers, Sam soon climbed into the bath, reaching out for Bobby's hand to steady him. Bobby was surprised at how trusting Sam was, not seeming embarrassed at all. The grizzled old hunter watched Sam as he splashed around a bit and, after a moment, insisted on soap and the like.

Once Sam was tucked in and assured that the windows and closet were warded against evil and prayers were said (Bobby suspected that was something Jim Murphy had taught the boy), Sammy settled into bed quickly enough. He was exhausted from the trying day and it was already late.

"Do you think Dad will ever let me have a dog?" Sam asked as Bobby went to the door.

"Well, what did he say when you asked?" Bobby said, knowing the answer.

"He said no," Sam repeated.

"Then it's not very likely, is it?"

"No," Sam agreed, but he was already scheeming. There had to be some way to change dad's mind.


	2. I mean it, pup

Disclaimer: Winchester universe not mine, but I spend enough time there, you know?

Author's Note: More of the same. Love that little Sammy. Please let me know what you're thinking.

**Dad Said No**

"Since when did you give a damn what Dad wanted? You spent half your life doing exactly what he didn't want, Sam."  
-Dean from_ Everybody Love a Clown_**  
**

Chapter 2, I mean it, Sam.

"His name is Pip and he's a really good dog and he'd be really happy here. Aminals are sens'tive to the supernatural, ya know," wheedled Sammy to the pastor as Jim leafed through the paper. The five year old had already frayed his family's patience with talk of the little puppy they had left behind a week ago. No one could say the boy lacked persistence; with a new audience, Sam was quite ready to give the argument another go.

The Winchesters had arrived earlier that afternoon and soon settled into their normal routine. Dean and John were out back training and Jim was keeping an eye on Sam, who was waxing poetic over his newly christened (despite Bobby's protest and John's disapproval) best friend. Every now and again the clergyman would give the boy a vague but encouraging nod, though he had stopped paying more than cursory attention to the solicitation.

John, however, who paused in the doorway to wipe off his muddy boots, was less than amused when he picked up on what was going on. He drew in an angry breath and entered.

"Samuel Michael Winchester!" he scolded.

Sam jumped in surprise and looked guiltily up at his father.

"WHAT did I say about that dog?" John growled.

"Not for _me,_" Sam quickly insisted, large eyes looking as innocent as he could manage, "for Pastor Jim."

John's eyebrows went up, but he quickly suppressed any amusement he felt at Sam's expressive face. He was determined not to raise a brat. "Sam, stop annoying Pastor Jim," he ordered._ Okay, maybe that was a little harsh_, he chided himself as Sam's face fell.

"I _wasn't_ annoyin' him," Sam protested as he fought to control a trembling lip.

"No back talk, young man," John reprimanded, though he made his voice perceptively gentler.

Rather unwisely, Sam ignored the warning. "I wasn't!" he insisted petulantly.

"Don't make me repeat myself!" John thundered.

Sam sucked in his pout, but refused to concede the point. "Dad," he started, with an exaggeratedly rational tone of voice that made John want to roll his eyes, "Pip would have lots of space here and he would help Pastor Jim fight spirits."

"Sam, we are not having this conversation again."

"Pastor Jim's a grown up. You're not the boss of him!" Sam shouted, losing the reasonable tone of voice and opting for volume—perhaps the father and son had more in common than was immediately apparent.

"That's enough, Samuel."

"But DAD!"

"GO TO YOUR ROOM!"

"But I…"

"I'M GOING TO COUNT TO THREE. ONE."

Sam scrambled, 'cause he definitely didn't want John to make it to three. When he was a safe distance away, though, he couldn't resist the final tearful protest "It's NOT my room. It's PASTOR JIM'S."

"DON'T YOU SLAM THAT…" Too late. The door closed with a crash and John's eyes narrowed in annoyance as he sunk down at the kitchen table beside Murphy.

John fixed the pastor with a suspicious glare. "Don't even _think_ about adopting that dog. Or any dog for that matter," he glowered menacingly.

Jim raised his eyebrows at the tone and nonchalantly turned the page of the newspaper he was reading "You're not the boss of me," he replied, absolutely unfazed, though the twinkle in his eye was working on overtime trying to hold back the laughter.

John gave him a glare full of mock virulence and pulled a beer from the fridge.

"Driving you to drink, already?" Jim laughed.

"His brother was never like this."

"His brother was never like this _with you_," Jim retorted, having been on the receiving end of Dean's more rebellious outbursts.

"I believe the commandment is _honor thy father_."

"Yes, but it doesn't say _disregard all other authority figures_, that's just the Gospel according to John Winchester."

John snorted, but didn't dispute the fact.

Dean came trooping in; the nine-year-old had just finished cleaning up after training.

"That was quick," John commented, noncommittally. Dean's eyes flicked to his father's face, checking for signs of disapproval. Satisfied that there was minimal implied criticism, he shrugged and entered.

"Wipe you feet," Jim reminded the boy. Dean rolled his eyes, and over his head the pastor shot John a look that said, _see what I mean_.

John caught himself before his own eyes rolled, but uttered a tired reprimand: "Dean."

Dean glared at Pastor Jim, _the man was always getting him into trouble!_ but deliberately wiped his feet before entering the kitchen.

"Lose the attitude, Ace," John ordered.

"Yes, sir," Dean muttered apologetically as he put some bread into toast. One of the things that Dean loved about Jim's house was that it was always well stocked, though there were too many rules about when and where you could eat.

"There's a new jar of peanut butter in the pantry and milk in the fridge," Jim commented, knowing how Dean liked his toast.

"Thanks," Dean said, grinning. "Where's Sammy?" He asked.

"In his room," John said in a voice that did not invite comment.

Dean frowned and his eyes widened with curiosity. He quickly finished his snack and slipped into the room he and Sam shared, on the pretext of changing out of muddy clothes.

Sam looked up nervously when Dean came in, obviously expecting John's sterner face. Apparently his punishment wasn't over yet, so he re-curled himself on the bed, hiding a tear-streaked face from his brother.

Dean looked sympathetically at the very unhappy five-year-old. Sammy still seemed like a baby to him sometimes, even though he was getting more interesting and could do tons more stuff now than before. _And get himself into a lot more trouble_, the older brother thought ruefully. "So, whadda ya in for?" he quipped as he changed.

"Nofing!" Sam said, free to pout at his older brother.

"Oh, I'm so sure," Dean scoffed.

Sam sat up, looking adorable and pathetic because he was so earnest; his sandy hair was mussed and his eyes still glittering. "Daddy is mean!" he whined.

"Sam!" Dean reprimanded immediately, "don't say that."

"He said I was annoying!" Sam accused.

"Outrageous," Dean dead panned.

"I'm NOT," Sam protested, a little put out at the lack of sympathy.

"Sure you not, squirt." Dean placated with a grin.

Sam stuck out his tongue at the patronizing tone, but then just squirmed restlessly. He didn't like being punished (kinda the point, John had commented many times before), especially since he knew it was his turn to train next and there wouldn't be anymore play time before bed.

Sighing, the younger boy flipped over onto his stomach and got out the _The Cat in the Hat_. Reading was not expressly prohibited (probably because John hadn't thought to do so, accustomed to his older son's general aversion to the activity).

It was one of the books from the shelf in their room at Jim's house. Second hand and ragged, but Sam loved it 'cause it was the first book he had ever read all by himself—seven-year-old Dean had been so jealous that he hadn't spoken to his three-year-old brother for a day and half, until Sammy burst into tears and Dean finally relented. Jim and even John, when he had time, had worked with them both after that, bringing Dean up to speed and putting Sam off the charts in terms of reading level.

He snapped the book closed as John entered and jumped to attention, eyes warily reading the disapproval on his dad's face. Dean took the cue to make himself scarce and shot Sam a sympathetic wink before closing the door on the Hunter and his youngest son.

John took a seat on the bed, leveling a look at Sammy that made the kindergartener squirm nervously. "Samuel, yelling and slamming doors is completely unacceptable," he scolded.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sam said in a small and apologetic voice, though he wanted to point out that John had been the one who started all the yelling. This was not the time to be giving his father an excuse to dole out more severe punishment.

"We are guests in this house and I expect you to treat Pastor Jim with respect, which means you don't cause disruption or bug him when he is working."

"Yes, sir." Sam whispered, looking down and shifting unhappily from one foot to the other.

"And Sam, I've told you before that I don't want to hear another word about that dog," John chided sharply.

It was a death sentence on the little boy's dreams. No one, _ever_, got John Winchester to change his mind after a declaration like that.

"But Dad—" Sam really was unbelievably audacious for a five year old.

"Do you want a spanking, young man?" John growled immediately.

Sam bit his lip and immediately gulped back further arguments, shaking his head in emphatic denial. "No, sir," he answered, just to be clear on that point.

"Then you will _do as I say_," John insisted.

Sam's broken eyes filled as he nodded his obedience, almost forgetting the puppy as he faced the terror of losing his father's approval and love. Sam choked on the apology "I'm sorry, Daddy," he begged.

John was a little horrified at Sam's strong reaction. Ignoring the unkind voice that had got him into this mess (the one that wanted to scream at Sam for manipulating him like this), John roughly pulled his baby into a tight embrace. "Hush now," he murmured into the boy's hair and held him until the sobs eased, "you're okay."

Sam tried valiantly and managed to pull himself together. John gave him a grateful bounce, one last squeeze, and sent him to wash his face.

"Do we hafta train today?" Sam asked as he reappeared in the bathroom doorway, rubbing his glittery eyes.

"We have to train every day, Sammy," John intoned gently. That was something that started shortly after the Stringa attack. John pushed both the boys now and none too lightly. Sam barely blinked, expecting this answer, though John did see the boy's frown deepen slightly. John took Sam out back and put him through some weapon's training, then a few endurance drills that tuckered the little guy out. John tried not to yell too loudly, even though Sam hadn't improved much in the last month, which made his insides squirm with fear. They could not afford to be weak.

After a bath, Sam was practically falling asleep at the table. It was only 8:00, but John put his youngest to bed soon afterwards, letting himself be talked into reading a chapter of _Vampires Don't Wear Polka Dots_, which Sam had gotten from the school library. A couple of hours later, John sent Dean to bed, a little off-handedly due to the fact that he and Jim were deep in the planning stages of a raid on a coven they believed responsible for a chain of mysterious deaths a couple of states over. Still, there were no complaints from Dean and John trusted he would slip in quietly so as not to wake Sammy.

It was no surprise, though, to see the five year old, hair ruffled with sleep and big eyes hopeful, appear in the doorway as Jim settled to start his sermon for the next night and John took a stab at the newspaper. Sam always did have trouble sleeping through the night and, though John discouraged it, often came to his father to help sooth his night terrors.

"Daddy?" Sam called softly from the doorway, knowing that waking up his older brother with unnecessary noise was a punishable offence.

"You should be in bed, Sam," John admonished sternly.

"I had a bad dream," Sam stated, looking for sympathy.

"Are you okay?" John asked, though his tone was not welcoming.

"Yes," Sam said, knowing there wasn't any real threat, but still needing to be coddled. "I jus'…"

"You just what?" John asked, not looking from his paper.

"Stop torturing him, John," Jim butted in gently.

"Will you read me a story?" Sam asked, before his dad could get mad.

"I already tucked you in, Sammy," John reminded him.

"I came un-tucked," was the standard reply.

"Pastor Jim will do it," John offered, a little mischievously 'cause he knew Jim's eyebrows had shot up in a silent _he will?_

"I want _you_ to do it," Sam insisted stubbornly.

"No, you don't," John said with a note of finality.

Sam caught himself on the stern tone, the veiled threat. "I don't?" he asked, just to be sure.

"No, you don't," John said again.

Sam expression softened to an acquiescent _Oh._ and he paused before he tried his second approach. "Pastor Jim?" came the insistent plea.

Jim was up in a moment, letting out an annoyed snort and pausing to smack John's ducked head with his notebook as he passed, noting his old friend's juvenile smirk. He plucked Sam up and covered him with an afghan from the couch before settling on the _Elves and the Shoemaker_ from a fairy tale anthology on the living room shelves. Sam was asleep by the time the preacher was finished, snuggled up close. Jim affectionately stroked the boy's hair, but it was John who gently lifted the boy and carried him back to bed, casting an affectionate eye on both sleeping sons before closing the door silently and going back to work.


	3. Picky Eating and Field Trips

Disclaimer: Winchester universe not mine, but I spend enough time there, you know?

Author's Note: Sorry I'm a slug at updating and thanks for your feedback. A word of warning: this chapter is tragic. I can't decide if I hate John or not.

**Dad Said No**

"I wanted to go to school and live my life, which in our whacked-out family, made me the freak"- Sam from _Bugs_**  
**

Chapter 3, Picky Eating and Field Trips

"Hey Pip," Sam said as the shaggy lab came bounding out to greet his boy. The seven-year-old knelt to let Pip lick his face. Sam grinned and rubbed the dog's ears.

Despite his misgivings, Bobby had held on to the pup. He and John had fought about it, but Bobby was one of the few people who didn't take John's crap; the more John demanded he get rid of the dog, the more Bobby stubbornly dug in his heels (much to Sam's delight). John had stormed off, pissed, but a couple of months later he was back with a question about annulling curses and they had never spoken of the incident again. Now, two years later, the controversy had been buried in true Winchester fashion.

There was a certain hardness in the father's eyes, though, when he saw his youngest fawn over the dog. John didn't stand for rebellion in his boys. Yes, Sam was on a short leash when the Winchesters visited Bobby's cabin.

"SAM!" John barked in annoyance, causing the shrimp to jump to his feet guiltily. "Help your brother unload," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Sam responded, quickly trotting over to help Dean, who was struggling with duffels from the trunk.

Bobby watched as the family deftly emptied the impala, holding the door for operation Unpack. They were efficient, he had to give 'em that. Dean grinned at him as he slipped through the door and Sam gave him a dimpled smile murmuring "'ello Bobby" as he followed his brother inside. He didn't get much more than a grunt from John, which indicated that the elder Winchester was there on business and didn't have time for pleasantries.

Bobby had gotten the head's up a few hours back and had already pulled his references on counter curses. He waited for John to get the boys settled and started on some training exercises before he handed his old friend a beer and settled to share his results.

They could hear Sam and Dean picking at each other through the open window:

"OW! Dean! That really hurt!" Sam protested.

"Well, keep your guard up, shrimp," Dean replied neutrally.

"It's not fair! You're bigger than me."

"Get used to it, bitch," Dean said, though the grin was evident in his tone.

Roused to a snarl of rage, Sam threw himself into the scuffle. The older hunters heard him go down and Dean's unsympathetic snort. "What exactly was your plan there, squirt? Flail your attacker to death? Weak, man."

"Shut up, Dean!"

"Brilliant comeback, Sammy. Why don't we work on your footwork?"

"Why don't we work on _your_ footwork, you big meanie?"

John rolled his eyes at their antics, pausing to push open the window a little further so he could bark "LESS talk, MORE work," at his sons.

"Yes, sir," the boys chorused obediently.

"Jeez, Dean, you got us in _trouble_," Sammy groused in the following silence. John's eyes narrowed and he took a step towards the window again, but Dean didn't dignify that with a response and instead starting pressing his attack so the little boy didn't have the breath to spare in complaining.

John's eyes lingered as he saw Sam practice the blocks he had introduced last week. The boy almost had them down. Dean immediately pressed, penetrating where Sam had left an opening. Sam glared, but reengaged with a strong, if unoriginal back kick that Dean had no trouble blocking.

John nodded in satisfaction and settled to listen to Bobby outline his research. It was two hours till the two hunters came up for air, startled by Dean and Sam trudging through the door.

Dean quickly answered John's raised eyebrow, saying, "Sun's going down." The boys knew better than to stay out after dark.

"Alright, boys, get washed up for dinner," John instructed.

"Is _Bobby_ gonna cook?" Dean said with some skepticism.

"Are you volunteering?" John demanded sternly.

"No, sir," conceded the eleven year old, eyes automatically dipping to the floor at the reprimand.

"I like it when Dean cooks!" Sam said, sticking up for his brother.

"You'll eat what you're given, young man," John growled firmly.

Sam's frowned darkly, as if he was considering talking back, but he soon thought better of it, especially as Dean grabbed his arm and pushed him firmly towards the bathroom.

"HEY! Don't push me," Sam hollered, but allowed himself to be herded out of trouble.

"Stop yelling," Dean said in exasperation. Sam made a face, but complied while John grimaced and finished his beer.

"So, do you have any food?" John asked Bobby with a rueful grin, rising to stretch the cramped muscles in his shoulders.

Bobby's glare was only in jest. He knew his friend well enough to anticipate the intrusion. When he was on the trail of something nasty, John rarely spared the brain space to come up with a meal plan.

The two men started going through the cupboards, looking for something that would pass as dinner. They finally settled on burgers, 'cause that was something they could be trusted not to screw up too badly. By the time the boys reappeared, the stove was sizzlin' and a couple of buns were laid out in preparation.

"I don't want burgers!" was the first thing out of Sam's mouth.

John rounded on him immediately. Every meal seemed to be a struggle with his youngest lately. The little guy didn't seem to know when to leave well enough alone. "SAM! That is ENOUGH. You'll eat what we fixed and you'll be GRATEFUL. Got it?"

Despite the persuasiveness of that argument, Sam's little mouth hardened and he gave John the most hateful look he could manage. John wondered how he had managed not to strangle the kid years ago.

"We had burgers LAST night," Sam muttered rebelliously, but dropped his gaze and slipped into his seat beside Dean. Dean looked incredulously over at his brother. Sometimes he couldn't believe Sam's nerve.

"Don't you know about the starving children in Africa?" Bobby grinned, handing the boys salad bowls and digging out a couple of bottles of dressing.

"One more word and you'll go without," John threatened as he flipped the first burgers.

Realizing that he was caught in a losing battle, Sam subsided, sulking though dinner. He hated to admit it, but he had worked up an appetite training and he didn't want to risk sleeping on an empty stomach.

John allowed it to pass, wondering where his youngest had picked up the attitude. He did his best for the boys, but Sam made it so difficult sometimes.

There were cookies for dessert and John let both boys have one, despite Sam's misbehavior. He knew that Dean would just split the treat with the younger boy later if he tried to lay down the law.

Dean did his homework after dinner, grumblings quelled with a look from his dad. Sam claimed a few moments with John to read him a book (It's for SCHOOL, he insisted).

The little boy was hardly challenged by second grade, though Sam never complained or goofed off in class. He did all of his assignments earnestly, seeming to swell under the praise he got from his teachers (and he had had several this year; two in Minnesota, on in Washington, another in Colorado). Really, it was amazing the kid was as well-adjusted as he was. Dean hadn't fared nearly so well; it usually took the older boy about three days to get on the bad side of whatever prat was the head of discipline.Well, he came by that naturally, John admitted to himself as he endured a round with Mr. Popper's Penguins. He knew for a fact that this wasn't normal second grade assignments, but Sam had been placed in a special program of some kind and so happily surged ahead of his classmates.

John placed an indulgent peck on Sam's head and was about to send him off to bed when the boy fixed him with those serious eyes. "Daddy?" he quired.

"Yeah, Sammy?" John asked guardedly.

"There's a field trip at my school next week."

John waited.

"Mrs. Holman wants to know if you will chaperon." _When did Sam start using words like _chaperon? John asked himself. He sent Bobby a glare to let him know that the derisive snort was not appreciated.

The father couldn't think of anything quite so unappealing as spending the day with a class full of second graders. Sam looked up expectantly, unable to hide the longing in his eyes. Where had this little guy come from? He was just so different from his father and brother, a complete mystery to the driven hunter.

"I don't think so, kiddo," John said as gently as he could. "You know that I have work to do."

Sam's face contorted, anger and disappointment playing across it in equal measure. He glared down at his shoes. "You don't have a _job_," he whispered in virulent protest, knowing perfectly well how out of line he was but unable to stop the angry words.

John was a little stunned at the disrespect. The room stilled as Bobby and Dean held their breath. Everyone waited to see how John would respond. John's jaw worked momentarily before he found his voice. "Care to rethink that statement, young man?" he growled in a dangerously low voice.

Sam was understandably nervous. He had never pushed his father this far before. Still, he couldn't bring himself to capitulate. Nathan Paul had said that daddy was jobless bum and Dean had busted his lip, but Sam knew that he and his brother were different, hated that they got picked on for their second hand clothes and free lunches. At school he and Dean said that Dad was mechanic or a private investigator or scientist and Dean would fight with anyone who called their bluff, but Sam knew that those were just lies and he hated having to tell them.

"No, sir," Sam whispered defiantly, unable to look his father in the eye.

Suddenly Sam felt himself being propelled by the arm towards the bedroom. John had opted for a little privacy in dealing with his rebellious young son. Sam made a squeak of protest but John's grip did not loosen until he had sat Sam down on the bed. Sam looked up nervously, but John's face was a dark mask. Sam wondered if he was gonna get spanked, biting his lip to stop the tears that were already threatening to spill.

"Samuel. _Look at me_," John ordered and the little boy's eyes flicked to his father's. He looked less than pleased.  
Sam swallowed and reconsidered his defiance. Somehow, though, he guessed they had moved passed that point.

"Let's get a few things straight," John gritted between clenched teeth. "What I do is important. I save _lives_, Sam. Do you understand that?"

"Yes." Sam said in a tiny voice.

"Excuse me?" John demanded.

"Yes, sir," Sam said with difficulty.

"That is my _job, _Samuel. And I'm _sorry_ if it means that I can't go on your school field trips or buy you everything you've ever wanted."

"or stay in the same school," Sam inadvisedly added.

"WHAT was that?" John's eyes glinted dangerously.

Sam looked him straight in the eye and he repeated steadily. "OR stay in the same school for more than a month."

"Samuel, what I do is _more important_ than your selfish desires."

Sam immediately started to cry in earnest. "I'm NOT selfish," he sobbed defiantly.

"DO NOT argue with me right now, young man," John growled. "You are acting like a selfish, spoiled brat. You _know_ why I do what I do."

"It's not FAIR," Sam cried desperately.

John knew he was asking too much, that he was hurting his little boy. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to see his way passed the anger. He knelt so he was looking into Sammy's crinkled up face. Sammy tried to wipe away the tears, but his breath was painfully belabored.

"Sammy, look at me," John said firmly, but his voice was gentler as he cupped the trembling chin in his large and calloused hands. Sam complied and John saw where he had wounded the child and felt the rest of his anger slip away.

"Don't you _ever _speak to me that way again," he finally declared, waiting only for Sam to nod his obedience before pulling the boy into his open arms.

Sam sobbed into his dad's shoulder, trembling with grief. "I'm sorry," he hiccuped, desperate to be forgiven.

John rocked him gently until the boy's breathing calmed."_I know, I know,_" he whispered, wishing it were that easy.

They were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. Dean came in, looking nervously at his father and brother. John gave him an encouraging smile, signaling that the storm had passed. Sam got more hugs and was tickled until the tears were forgotten and the delightful giggle was back. Dean teased him gently and affectionately while John poured him a bath. Later John tucked his boys into bed, running a gentle hand through the Sammy's hair and earning a shy smile from the seven-year-old.

"I love you, Dad," Sam said, making his father's heart swell.

"I love you, too," John smiled, leaning to brush his lips against the warm forehead.

"'Night Dad," Dean said, bright eyes looking at him far too much understanding for his eleven years.

"Good night, Son," John said, wondering if he deserved these boys. He knew he couldn't lose them.

He cringed, thinking of all the mistakes he had made and the long, hard road still in front of him. He thought of the burdens his Dean shouldered without a word of complaint and those that were pressing on his Sammy.

_You're right, baby_, he thought. _It's not fair. _It's not fair at all.


	4. The BowHunting Incident

Disclaimer: Winchester universe not mine, but I spend enough time there, you know?

Author's Note: Another horribly slow update. Ah, well, finals week is like that. Please review!

* * *

**The Bow-Hunting Incident**

Dean: OK, maybe he had to raise his voice a few times, but sometimes you were out of line. Sam: Yeah, like when I said I wanted to play soccer instead of learning bow-hunting.  
Dean: Bow-hunting's an important skill! –_Bugs_

_"_"Somewhere along the way, I stopped being your father and started being your drill sergeant".- _Dead Man's Blood_

"Sam, I SAID no. Just drop it, John warned. 

"But Nate _said_ I could _play,_" Sam whined, voice rising desperately.

"That's ENOUGH. 20 push-ups," was John's unyielding answer.

"But Dad…"

"25, Sam, NOW," John growled.

Sam glowered as he angrily jerked off his jacket and dropped into position.

"Get your butt down," John snapped. Sam immediately straightened, grunting as his arms took the weight.

"All the way down, Sam" John instructed, watching as Sam struggled to comply before turning to start dissembling the hunting supplies laying on the cracked kitchen counter.

Dean came through the swinging door between the kitchen and family room. He sighed pointedly at Sam, who managed a glare even as he dropped for the tenth push-up.

"Keys," Dean demanded, deftly catching the jangling projectile that John lobed over. He disappeared again, moving out to load up car like John had _asked_ both the boys to do.

They were packing up for training that weekend; bow hunting required a little space to move around. John wanted the boys to be able to take out a target before they were close to get hit themselves, which meant practice. He had take the afternoon to go over weapon care and procedural stuff—they were taking off tonight and would do practical training bright and early tomorrow.

Dean had taken the instruction in stride, was actually looking forward to spending the time with his family. He hadn't made any new friends at the new middle school and wasn't looking forward to another weekend in the dinky little Missouri town. Sam, on the other hand, had his heart set on a neighborhood soccer game. He had bonded with some kid down the block and had been sneaking off to play soccer in the grassy lot at the end of the street. They were in the run-down section of town, where the latino kids had nightly soccer games. Sam was enamored, enduring the older boys teasing because of his white skin and clumsy ball handling because he thirsty for their easy acceptance. He had been grounded twice for coming home after dark, the second time earning him a sore butt. Somehow the kid was still holding out hope that Dad would let him stay for the Saturday game.

His mood had quickly turned foul when John shut him down and he was getting on his father's last nerve with his whining and wheedling.

"Okay, enough," John said with finality as Sam climbed to his feet and shrugged back into his jacket.

"Can't I at least go to the park tonight? I have to tell 'um I won't be able to make it," Sam pushed.

"Sam, we're leaving tonight. _No._" John dismissed. He glanced down at Sammy in time to catch an impressive eyeroll.

Sam yelped as John crashed his palm down on his son's stubborn backside. "Do NOT roll your eyes at me," he said shortly.

"I _hate _you," Sam hissed.

John froze for a moment, giving his son a hard look before saying coldly, "doesn't change anything. Go help your brother load up the car."

"I have _homework_," Sam protested.

"Just. DO. It," John bit out, barely holding his temper. Sam had the sense to back away. Whirling, he nearly crashed into Dean as the older boy came back in for a second load.

"Your stuff packed?" Dean asked the younger boy.

"No." Sam admitted, eyes shifting downward guiltily.

"Sam!" John scolded, infuriated.

With Dad and Dean looking at him expectantly, Sam beat a hasty retreat. "I'm _going_," he griped as he went.

John let out a frustrated breath as his youngest disappeared up the stairs. Dean grinned sympathetically, moving to help repack the weapons kit. John smiled back fondly. It was nice to have one son that didn't fight him tooth and nail over every little thing. They worked together easily, like a well oiled machine.

"Your brother…" John started, trailing off into the confusion that was Samuel Winchester.

"Yeah, I know," Dean said with a grin. "Total pain in my ass."

"Dean," John said, with a note of censure.

Dean rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Pain in my butt," he amended.

"Just," John said and paused, letting out an annoyed breath, "take these out to the car, please."

"Yes, sir," Dean responded, not pushing his luck.

They were on the road by 7, grabbing some burgers on their way out of town. Sam worked diligently on his homework in the back. When it got too dark to see clearly, he pulled out a flashlight and a book and sank into it. Sam was only eight, but probably the smartest kid at his current, overcrowded school. He was lightyears ahead of his peers; was learning spanish (it's a lot like Latin, Dad!) in his spare time and picking up things John wasn't sure he'd _ever _learned.

John instinctively knew the books Sam plowed through were mainly a form of escapism, a stubborn rejection of the life they were forced to live. He worried about his youngest in those moments; Sam looked so intently at the pages in front of him, almost willing the newspaper routes in Beverly Cleary's _Henry Huggins_ to replace the shoddy neighborhood, the cruel taunts of other children, the distracted teachers and the one, demanding parent. Who he hated. John felt a pang of self-censure. This was never the life he wanted for his children.

John found a hotel around 10, sending the boys up to get ready for bed while he paid.

They were bickering when he came in:

"NO, Dean, that one's mine!" Sam was whining, grabbing at a comic book Dean waved just out of his reach.

"Jeez, Sammy, I was just looking..."

"You always take MY STUFF!" Sam yelled, making another grab.

"BOYS!" John yelled, restoring order. Dean yielded the contested article, and they turned guiltily towards him.

"Dean, you owe me 30. Sam, 20. Then get to bed!" he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Dean said stretching briefly and dropping to begin his push-ups.

"But Dad!" Sam pled, eyes filling with tears.

"What?" John demanded unsympathetically.

"Dad, I can't." His arms were still sore from before.

"Yes, you can Sam."

"Yeah, Sammy, come on, you can do it," Dean encouraged from where he was, facing the floor.

"NO I CAN'T!" Sam yelled, tears spilling. He rubbed them away stubbornly, but the his lips were trembling wildly.

"You don't say no to me, young man," John said, firmly though his voice was gentle.

Tears of exhaustion dripped down Sam's face as he had no choice but to obey. John knelt, counting for Sam and talking him through it. Dean stayed in position, offering his moral support by matching Sam's pace.

"Breathe Sam," John ordered as Sam's face got red. His lungs spasmed and he sucked in a shaky breath.

"Please, Dad, I can't," he cried.

"Yes, you can. Come on, Sammy. You're doing good," John said, knowing it was a necessary step. He needed his boys strong. "Breathe, son. That's it. Good job, kiddo."

"Dad, please, Dad please, Dad please," Sam whimpered, barely flexing for his tenth push-up.

"Half-way there, Sammy. You're half way there." John encouraged.

"You can do this Sam," Dean added.

"There you go," John continued and the two of them coached Sam through. At twenty, Sam collapsed, curling his head to his knees and turning his back on John while he wiped away the last of his tears.

"I'm proud of you, champ," John said gently, but Sam wouldn't even look at him. Gradually the tears dried and the boys stretched out their sore muscles. But Sam went to bed mad at his Dad, mad at the world. He turned his back on John, taking his time finishing the chapter he was allowed.

Dean leaned in, talking to him quietly. He knew how to make the tears stop, had that older brother charm that worked wonders on Sam. It hurt, though, seeing Sammy choose Dean over Dad every time. It wasn't like John had chosen this life; he didn't like it any more than Sam. _God_, he hated seeing his baby hurting. But it scared the crap out of him that what he did put his boys at risk. John remembered the night the Shtriga had gotten through those defenses, made him realize exactly how vulnerable they really were. _I can't loose you, Sammy. Don't hate me for that. _

John didn't say anything, though, just lying there listening to the boy's whispers quiet and turn to warm, steady breathing. He thought about Mary, as he always thought of Mary, letting himself remember her face as he closed his eyes, listening to the demanding cricket song with sharp ears. It was the bittersweet pang of memory that reminded John of why he did the things he did, the knowledge that there were some things so terrible that they could not be allowed to remain. They had to be destroyed, sent to the deepest depths of hell. And he was the one to do it.

John caught a few hours of rest, dreaming restlessly. He was up at 5:00, becoming painfully alert, but he let the boys sleep for a while before rousting them and getting on the road again.

After an hour of basic training, Sam was getting frustrated. Dean, at least, had done this before and was simply more adept at the mechanics of bowhunting.

"Sam, pay attention," John reprimanded when the boy missed the target entirely; he didn't want stray arrows flying around.

"This is so _stupid_," Sam said, releasing at the wrong time yet again.

"_Excuse _me?" John said, hoping to nip the tantrum in the bud.

"Dad, no one even _uses_ bows anymore," Sam protested.

"Sammy, that's not true. I don't want to hear anymore whining. Just try it again."

"Yes it is _true_, Dad. Why do even have to learn this? We can just use guns."

"What about vampires, Sam?" Dean teased. "One wooden arrow, right through the heart. Finish 'um right off."

"There's no such thing as vampires, you idiot," Sam said, jealous that Dean's arrow had hit directly on target the last three times in a row.

"This is _important_, Samuel. It could keep you alive."

Sam glared straight ahead darkly, and shot. At least this time he hit the target.

"You're going to have to do better than that," John said, shaking his head.

"I _hate _you," Sam muttered, not looking at his father.

"You know what?" John said, dander rising. "Start running."

"Fine. Anything's better than_ this_," Sam said spitefully, having enough sense not to throw his equipment on the ground, knowing that would get him in even more trouble. He went to put the bow away.

"Nope, you carry it with you," John insisted, showing him how he expected him to hold it so it wouldn't be damaged and quickly outlining the route he wanted Sam to run and giving him a timelimit. "If you're not back in twenty minutes, you can do it again," he said meaningfully. "When you get back, I want you ready to work and that attitude gone, do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Do you hear me, Samuel?" He said, a little louder.

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, go," he said, clicking the stop watch. Sam immediately took off, he would have to push to make it back in time.

He had Dean working on moving targets when Sam came back, crashing through the underbrush. "There's no need to advertise your presence, Sam!" he barked.

Nevertheless, he clicked the stopwatch, and gave a terse nod of approval as Sam gasped for breath. Sweat had soaked the boy's shirt and his face was red from exertion. "Sorry," he wheezed. John accepted that, and let Sam take a break to catch his breath. He had both boys drink some water to avoid dehydration before having Dean put Sam through another drill, while he set up the training course. By the time he was back, Sam had made progress; as usual Dean had straightened a few things for his younger sibling and a few friendly jibes had inspired Sam's competitive spirit. He was looking much better.

"Good job, Sam," John praised, and he smiled at Dean before increasing the difficulty of the target for Sam and running Dean through the new course a couple of times.

The three of them were all exhausted as they collapsed into the car that evening. They pulled through town and John sent Dean in to order them some food from the dinner. Stretching his right arm over the Impala's front seat while gripping the wheel with his left, John glanced down at Sam, who had had claimed the shotgun for the return trip.

"How're you doin' kiddo?" he asked, smiling.

Sammy smiled up at him, the first sign of warmth he'd seen for days. It reminded John of thwhen he'd been called Daddy and trusted completely. "I'm okay, Dad," Sam said, glancing out the window at the lengthening shadows.

"You did good today, buddy." John offered, trying to hold onto that feeling, communicate the love he felt for his beautiful, shadow and sunshine, little boy.

Sam's smiled again and he leaned back so his hair brushed John's arm. "I hate bow-hunting," he said.

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out, Sammy."

There was a pause. "Dad?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"I'm sorry..."

John smiled and dropped his hand to Sam's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Everything is gonna be just fine, Sammy."

"That's what Dean always says."

"Yeah? Well, you're brother's a smart kid."

"Yeah, I guess. But don't tell _him_ that." John chuckled and lifted his hand as Dean returned with a bag of take-out.

"Change?" John prompted as they distributed the food. Dean dug it from his pocket with good natured protest.

The boys were already starting to nod off as John turned South towards Missouri. The night was thick and quiet, resonant. John smiled as Sam's head nodded sleepily and caught Dean's eye in the rear-view mirror, sharing a slight smile.

_They're such good boys, Mary. Such good soldiers, _he thought, finding a jazz station on the radio and, for a moment, allowing himself to feel safe.


	5. Summer Camp

Disclaimer: Winchester universe not mine, but I spend enough time there, you know?

**Dad Said No**

Dean: it's what we were raised to do.  
Sam: Yeah, well, how we were raised was jacked.- from _Bugs_

Chapter 5, Summer Camp

Sam's sitting at the kitchen table, school papers spread out in front of him. He's in 3rd grade and works harder at it than Dean ever remembers working on anything school-related in his life. The end of the year book project is a major big deal to Sam, but Dean is sick of hearing about the journal articles Sam is writing covering the events of _Martin the Warrior_ from the perspective of some kind of rodent.

"It's a good book, Dean," Sammy defends.

"I've got better things to do, Sammy," says the 12-year-old, snapping on the burner for another gourmet meal for two. Dad is out hunting, so they're on their own, but the boys are comfortable with each other and have a routine that works for them.

"Hey Dean?" Sammy says, in a tone that makes Dean suspicious.

"What?"

"Umm… there's this thing that I want to ask Dad, except I know he's gonna say no."

"What?" Dean asks, even more suspicious.

Sammy pauses. "It's a week-long camp at the beginning of summer. Jeremy and Alex are going and I really, really want to go too," he confesses.

"Dad's not going to go for it," Dean cautions, wary of the look of longing on Sam's face.

Sam makes a face. "I KNOW, Dean, that's what I JUST said," he snaps.

"Well, don't get all pissy at me. I'm just sayin'"

"I never get to do anything I want to do!" Sam complains.

"Yes, I know, you are so abused and neglected," Dean quips sarcastically, plopping a glass of milk down in front of him pointedly.

Sam pouts but Dean ignores him. "Move your stuff, we're going to eat," he prompts.

Sam complies, carefully packing up his project.

"We're training after dinner," Dean warns, knowing Sammy won't like it.

"Deeeean," he immediately whines. "I want to finish my project."

"They don't give higher than an A, Sammy," Dean teases. "It's DONE already."

Sam sighs in the long suffering manner of younger brothers. "Fine, but do we HAVE to do swordwork?"

"Dad didn't make it optional, kiddo."

"How's he gonna know?"

"How do you think? He's gonna know if you haven't practiced, Sammy." John always tested them when he got back from his hunt. He would be less than pleased if he discovered the boys (or just Sam, as was almost always the case) had slacked off on training.

Sam looks belligerent, but doesn't say anything more as he gets the rest of his papers off the counter and grabs bowls and spoons from the cupboard. "I don't see what I can't go to camp. It's just one week!"

"I thought you hated camping," Dean says, trying to dissuade his brother. Sam was crazy if he thought this was gonna fly with Dad.

"_That's _not camping, that's survival training. And it sucks."

"Well, it wouldn't suck so much if you weren't such a bitch about everything."

"Don't call me that! You big jerk! I'm gonna tell Dad."

"Then I'll tell him you didn't clean your weapons yesterday before you put them away."

"Then I'll tell him that YOU forged his signature to get out of detention on Tuesday!"

"Then I'll tell him that you were out after dark."

"Only TWO minutes, Dean!" Sam protests. "Then I'll tell him…"

The bickering eventually ends in a tie, both brothers establishing that they have enough dirt to keep the other grounded for the rest of his natural life and a major incentive to keep that information to himself.

An easy truce restored, Dean serves the Chef Boyardee.

Sam plays with it grumpily, but grins when Dean tells him there's parmesan in the fridge. The younger boy quickly retrieves it, dumping it liberally over his pasta and scooting up to the table again with a little more zest.

After dinner the two of them do their exercises. As usual Dean bribes Sam into it by promising an extra half hour to stay up and watch TV, a ploy which is definitely not cleared by Dad, but which always makes the training bearable for Sam, who has something to look forward to and for Dean, who doesn't have to listen to him whine. Since Dean is in charge, they get the pushups and strength drills out of the way and go straight into hand-to-hand which is Dean's favorite. Sammy's getting better, but he's at a continual disadvantage, being so much shorter and less experienced than Dean. He gives Dean a run for his money, though. After sparring, Dean takes Sam through the punches and kicks Dad assigned, then Sam helps Dean with his exercises. They do knife throwing next, which gives them a chance to catch their breath. Finally they take out their practice swords.

"_En garde_, you fiend," Dean says dramatically, ginning as he expertly brandished his weapon.

"This is SO dumb," Sammy whines as he blocks the advance.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, pressing again.

Sam scrambles to check the onslaught and returned with an upward thrust. "Ha! Ha!" he chortles.

Dean parries, stepping back and grinning as Sam gets into the exercise. "Not so fast, evil doer."

Dad was always unreasonably serious about training, but Dean makes it fun, like it was play instead of a chore. Still, Sam's exhausted when Dean sends him to wash up and get ready for bed.

Sam returns to the family room, hair damp from the shower and teeth brushed. He snuggles up on the couch and flips on the TV while Dean makes a half hearted stab at fractions.

"Hey Sam," he calls. "I'll give you my allowance if you do my math homework."

"You don't get allowance this week 'cause you didn't do the dishes when Dad told you to," Sam yells back.

"Oh, yeah," Dean mutters, chewing on his pencil.

Sam's eyes are drooping a bit when Dean sends him to bed.

"Are you coming?" he asks, trying not to sound plaintive.

Dean looks unhappily at the algebra homework. "Yeah," he says, shoving the half-finished worksheet into his backpack. "In a minute."

While Sammy heads to bed, Dean checks the perimeter. Nothing's been disturbed. A shadow moves in the street and Dean pauses, staring intently until the sound of cats fighting tells him it's nothing ominous. But he makes sure the shotgun is loaded and within easy reach before he kicks off his shoes.

"You're teeth are going to rot if you don't brush 'um, Dean," Sam nags sleepily from the bed next to his. Dean throws a shoe at him.

"Ouch!" Sam protests when it nails him in the stomach. Dean did have pretty good aim.

Satisfied, the older brother hits the bathroom, running a bush over his teeth before he sinks into bed, setting the alarm for school in the morning.

"Dean?" Sam said, just as Dean was about to drift off.

"Whaaaat?" Dean says with a tad bit of annoyance.

"Nothing."

Dean sighs. "What Sammy?" He says, gentler.

"Don't you ever want to do anything _normal_?"

Argh. "NO."

"Oh."

Sigh. "Do you?"

"I just want to have some real _friends._"

"And what do you call us? Sworn enemies?"

"No, Dean." Dean can practically hear Sam roll his eyes in the darkness and smirks.

"We're _brothers_," Sam says, as if this explained everything.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean says, sadly. For him it did. Being brothers was enough for Dean. He didn't really get what Sam was grasping at by cozying up to the locals. "We're out of here right after school ends, Sammy," he says, hoping to cut this conversation off at the pass.

"I know."

Dean thinks the kid is finally going to go to sleep.

"When's dad coming home again?"

"Um… sometime tomorrow. Go to sleep."

"Dean, did you check the salt lines?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Nothing bad can get in."

"Okay, 'night Dean."

"'Night Sammy."

"Hey Dean?"

"Whaaat?"

"Thanks for takin' care of me."

"Go to sleep, you big girl."

He hears Sam snort in the bed beside him, rustling around till he isn't anymore and his breath is heavy and even. Dean grins before finally drifting off himself.

John is back by the time the two of them make it home at 3:30 the next day. Dean sighs, 'cause he's got another note home about homework and he knows Dad's gonna be on his case.

"He might be sleeping, Sammy." He cautions, 'cause Sam has that determined look on his face and Dean knows he wants to ask about camp.

"I know, Dean."

"Why don't you just give him a break?" Dean says, knowing this'll probably end in a big fight and a very unhappy little brother. "He works hard enough without you nagging him al the time."

The words stung. "I don't nag him al the time," Sam protests. "Or not ALL the time, anyway," he concedes petulantly. "Jeez, Dean, you're such a Jerk."

"Just keep it down, Sammy," he orders and Sam glares as he follows Dean into the house.

But John's up, with research spread across the kitchen table, just like Sam with his school project the night before. "Hey boys," he says with a tired smile.

"Hey Dad!" Sammy says, pulling out a winning smile and Dean smiles too, 'cause it's nice to not be in charge all the time.

"How'd it go?"

Sammy glances a little nervously at Dean, trying to remember if he had stepped over any lines in the last couple of days. Dean didn't rat on him unless he was really troublesome; they figured most things out between themselves because, well, when John was unhappy, they were all unhappy.

"Good," Dean says simply, 'cause there wasn't anything major to report.

John smiles appreciatively, though his eyes are tired.

"Hey Dad…" Sam says.

"Yeah?" John answers.

"Um… I was just wondering if… are we going to be moving right after school's over?"

John isn't in the mood to fight about it. "Yes, Sam… It'll be just you, me and Dean this summer, like always." They turned a little nomadic when there wasn't school to keep them tied down, spent the summer in motels.

Sam's disappointment was evident; his face fell. "Oh."

"What is it Sam?" John demands, a little annoyed.

"There's this camp. It's just a week."

"Sam..." There is a note of censure in the tone.

"Dad, _please_. All of my friends are going!"

"It's not safe, Sammy."

"But Dad!"

"The answer's no, buddy. Don't push me."

Sam jaw is set and he folds his arms firmly in front of him. He ignores Dean's warning glare and fixes flashing eyes on his old man.

John glares right back, half way to pissed already. _Why did it always have to be a fight with this kid? _

"Sam, I'm not in the mood," he snaps, meaningfully.

Dean was quiet, though his eyes plead with Sam to let it go. The older boy knows there was no arguing with Dad, especially not when he looks this tired and frayed.

"You're being totally unfair!"

"That's enough, young man!"

Not to mention the damage to his sunny personality.

Sam storms to his room and John runs a tired hand over his face. "Has he been like this all weekend?"

"Nope. You just bring out the best in him." Dean quips.

"Don't you get smart with me."

"No, sir."

"By the way, the school called. You've got a note for me." It wasn't really a question, so Dean forked it over, trying to look innocent. "You're grounded this weekend. I want all of your assignments completed and in by Monday, you hear?"

"Yes, sir," Dean says with a sigh.

"You can start now."

Again, he wasn't really asking. "Yes, sir," Dean says, but makes a couple of Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches for him and Sam before he heads upstairs.


	6. Disobedience

Disclaimer: Winchester universe not mine, but I spend enough time there, you know?

**Dad Said No**

John: "I said get in the damn car"

Sam: "Yeah! And I said no!" _-_ _Dean Man's Blood_

Chapter 6, Disobedience

Sammy sits in the back seat of the Impala, pouting, while John and Dean suit up. Dean takes his cue from his father, who is silent and tense for the hunt, but Sammy is restless and unhappy and taking no pains to hide it.

John doesn't anticipate a complicated hunt, there has been reports of what could only be a Redcap terrorizing hikers and a few bodies had turned up, but they were cowardly creatures and not bright. Anyone who knew what he was doing could cut it down for size with a diminishing ritual and take out the pests. He does need Dean to read the incantation, but he can handle the rest.

At eight, Sammy was deemed too young to participate and is being confined to the car for the duration. That's why he's petulantly kicking the seat in front of him while John quickly sets up a protective perimeter around the car. John put a stop to that with a sharp finger snap and "the look." Sam looks up crossly, but complies with the warning. He knows John doesn't tolerate disrespect to the Impala any more than to his own person and would be pissed if Sam accidentally marked up the upholstery while sulking.

According to John's notes, Redcaps are killed by beheading, but are impenetrable at full power. John had checked with Jim and the Pastor had assured him that Redcaps really could be stopped in their tracks with a bible verse; it made their teeth drop out, rending them more or less harmless. He had both the boys memorize several. If it got past all that, Sam had iron rounds loaded up for him, which should also act as a deterrent in a tight spot.

"You have Pastor Jim's number. If we're not back by midnight, call him. He'll send backup. Do NOT, for any reason, leave this car. That's an order, Samuel."

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?" Sam objects.

John tries to keep his temper in check. He takes a deep breath. "_Do_ you have to go to the bathroom?" He demands.

"No, but what if I do?"

"Then you're outta luck. Hold it till we get back."

Sam glares. "This is so unfair," he mutters under his breath.

John decides to ignore it. "STAY put," he repeats, looking at his son expectantly.

"Yes, sir," Sam says darkly, because it is required.

"Good doggy," Dean teases under his breath, smirking evilly, as John turns away.

Sam glares and sticks out his tongue as John, who had sharp ears for an old guy, whirls on his oldest. "Watch it, Mister," he growls. The stern expression and warning index finger immediately wipe the smirk from Dean's face.

"Sorry," Dean apologizes quickly, catching the superior expression on Sam's face and wishing he were close enough to kick.

"And both of you, keep it down!" John orders quietly. "Sammy, close the doors and lock them. Nobody gets in without the password."

Sam nods and does as he's told, watching through the shut windows as John talks to Dean. He can't make out the orders, but the older boy nods professionally, shouldering his pack. Sam feels a spasm of jealousy and longing. He's sick of being treated like a baby, tired of being left behind.

He watches as John and Dean dissolve into the darkness. Suddenly the anger cools and he's left with a cold, dark dread.

The car is parked next to the trailhead and dusky evening light makes the small outhouse and signage loom ominous as the day fades. Sam shivers, hearing the wind rustle testily outside. He snakes Dean's sweatshirt from the front, pulling it over his head and rolling up the sleeves. It's too big, but Sam likes the way it billows around him, warm and familiar.

He hoists his Spiderman backpack onto the seat beside him, switching on his flashlight. The plastic knapsack is worn and faded and it's patched up with duct tape. Sam inherited it from Dean, who tended to be a little rougher on his belongings. The younger boy had begged for a new one in September, but Dad hadn't been keen on the idea.

Sam tries to complete a math assignment from his workbook, but it's too hard. He needs Dad or Dean to show him. Instead, he flips through his daily reading for the week. He knows all the vocab and spelling words already, so it doesn't take him very long to complete the worksheet. That's all the homework he has.

Dad's got a folder of research in the front seat. Sam snuck a look it back at the hotel even though he knew he'd catch it if Dad caught him messing with his journal without permission. The eight-year-old involuntarily shivers as he thinks about the wicked looking creature with cruel, jagged teeth and long spindly fingers that sustains itself on the blood of its victims, paralyzing them with a mild poison which made the muscles seize and the blood run freely, dying its "cap" in the fresh blood of the dead.

Sam pushes it from his mind as best he's able. He's bored, fears occupying his idle thoughts. He digs in Dean's bag for the older boy's reading book. Sam's nearly finished. He's much further in it than Dean, who never completes his assignments till the last minute or until Dad makes him. Sam thinks it's a good story, though, and reads it when Dad and Dean don't have time to play. He curls up on the seat, holding the flashlight close and trying to ignore the creak and moan of the trees in the wind.

Sam starts violently when he hears the first gunshot. At first he's relieved, trusting that soon Dad and Dean'll be back and they can head to a hotel, finally. Then he hears something that just might be panicked yells. His heart beats fast. He's sure that was Dean's voice. He strains his eyes to see out the window, but it's well and truly night. He can't make out a thing in the darkness. Adrenaline courses through his body.

Sam nervously clutches the shotgun in his cold and sweaty hands. He flinches when a scream breaks the silence. It sounds human. He thinks it might be Dad.

Sam knows he's to stay put. Dad gave an order and Winchesters didn't disobey orders. But he can't help imagining his brother and father bleeding their life out in the darkness, gasping their last breaths and leaving him utterly, utterly alone in the darkness. He can't let it happen.

Hands trembling, Sam unlocks the door of the car. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil..." he whispers in a shaky voice as he pulls the latch. The car light turns on automatically, blinding Sam, whose eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Sam grabs the gun and quickly scrambles out of the backseat, closing the door and following the wavering yellow light of his flashlight passed the protective circle John had so carefully constructed. He spies the tracks that his father and brother made no effort to hide and struggles gamely up the hill toward the gunshots.

* * *

John and Dean work their way quickly and quietly through the brush, stealthy and sure. Dean catches the sent of fresh blood and gags. John looks over in concern, catching a glimpse of Dean's pale face in the glow of the flashlight. "Steady," he cautions. 

Dean pulls his guts into line, nodding at his father that he's okay. "_Nasty_," he hisses, swallowing hard. They're getting close to the Redcap's latest kill.

John suppresses an indulgent grin, holding up his hand for silence. He nods at Dean to pull out the text they dug from Pastor Jim's library while he prepares his weapons.

The thing comes unwillingly; they can hear it, spluttering and clicking in the darkness. Dean's shoulders tense at the sound, but his father's stance is sure. The twelve-year-old takes comfort in John's easy confidence. Dad would never let anything get to him, not while he was still drawing breath ...and nothing could kill John Winchester… so he felt okay as he concludes the summons, even excited as they step close enough to see the (literally) blood red hat glisten in the fierce moonlight.

No matter how many pictures or sketches they pour over before the hunt, the site of these unnatural monsters still makes their breath catch, though John quickly covers the fact. Dean watches in horrified fascination as the thing bends terribly over the pool of blood pressed from the victim's slit throat, lapping so the stream of dark liquid runs through its terrible gnashing teeth. Then the grotesque face suddenly turns its wide and hateful gaze directly to them.

It moves quick and Dean lets out a yell of warning. John swears, bringing up his weapon and firing quickly. The shot is loud and sure. It hits, but only momentarily slows the creature.

"Dean! The ritual!" John prompts, taking aim again and shooting.

The Redcap dodges at the last minute, supernatural speed shuddering time. John abandons the gun and grabs the machete from its sheath. He moves defensively in front of his son, meeting the onslaught with the ease of a seasoned hunter. But even though he's holding his own against the creature, it's too strong for his blows to do any permanent damage.

"Dean!" He yells again, but he's answered with a cry of pain that cuts through him. Whirling, he leaves an opening for the Red Cap to sink its poisonous teeth into his leg. John screams in pain and rage, seeing that he's made a miscalculation. Red Caps are supposed to be solitary, territorial. But somehow there's a second creature hissing and slicing at his son.

John's heart, which was already pounding hard as he struggled with his attacker, jumps when he hears Dean yell again. The boy has fallen, the ritual tumbling from his hand as he scrambles back. Dean tries to raise his gun at his attacker, face distorted with effort and fear.

Face gray and heart thumping, John works to put himself between Dean and the danger, leg going numb from the poison. He engages both Red Caps at once, working to lure them away from Dean. Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Dean scramble for the journal, voice high as he urgently begins the diminishing ritual.

"Vengeance is mine, sayth the lord," John bites out, causing one creature's tooth to fall out and the other to shrink back, hissing. The creatures get desperate and vicious, going after Dean who is sapping their strength with each word. John lodges a machete in the side of one of the creatures, throwing it back and away while the other goes for his heart; John twists but takes a long scratch in the side. He starts worrying about his mobility the poison begins to tingle as it mixes with his flowing blood.

The last thing John wants to see, the only thing worse than seeing Dean go down, was seeing Sammy appear over the rise of the land, big eyes wide and terrified, wearing Dean's old sweatshirt and holding a shotgun to his shoulder.

"Dean!" John hears his youngest son yell, eyes transfixed on where Dean is scrambling backward, reading the diminishing ritual. The father's breath catches painfully as he sees his Sammy run headlong into danger.

Dean's head snaps upward as he hears his brother screaming his name. "Sammy no!" he yells in horror as the boy puts himself in harms way.

"Get BACK!" John screams, praying to God that this time his orders will be obeyed.

Sam falters but, to his credit, he recovers quickly, diving for cover. Dean scrambles to him. Both boys are safe behind the hollow tree, breathing hard and a bit bruised, but alright.

"Dean! Finish it!" John yells, knowing it's their only chance. Dean quickly flips back, finding his place.

Sammy raises his weapon again. "Sammy GET DOWN!" John thunders with all the breath he has left, but the boy takes aim, firing at the closer of the two creatures just before Dean grabs him by the collar and forces him to saftey, not breaking his chant, though his eyes betray his older brother panic and worry.

Weakened by the ritual, the creatures are vulnerable to the shotgun. Despite being an insubordinate little idiot, Sammy has good aim. The Redcap screams and goes down. John finishes it off easily, turning his attention to the second. He shows no mercy.

"Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good," he admonishes, pushing the creature back and back, till finally he gets the opening he needs and swings hard and true, severing the head cleanly away.

John wipes the machete on the grass, groaning in pain. It sounds loud in the quiet of the clearing.

"DON'T move," he orders as the boys stir uncertainly. Dean nods, holding Sam tightly by the collar to make sure he obeys.

Digging a vial of holy water from his pack, John quickly treats his few wounds. The bleeding slows immediately and he sighs in relief as the sharp pain signals the return of feeling to the affected regions. He hobbles over to Dean, doing the same to the boy's few cuts and reassuring himself that the boy is not seriously hurt.

"Are you okay?" He asks urgently.

"I'm fine," Dean assures him.

"Sammy?" He says, turning roughly to see for himself that the boy is intact.

"It din't get me," Sam says fearfully. He's unnerved by his father's quiet intensity. "Dad?" he queries, looking up at him with big eyes.

John doesn't respond except to gather his son in a rough embrace, breathing in the boy's scent and being terribly gratefully for the uncomfortable wiggle Sam gives as he adjusts himself in his father's arms. Living and breathing still, thank God.

_I'm gonna kill him_, John thinks as the panic recedes. He releases Sam suddenly, passing the boy to Dean, who holds on tight.

John surges to his feet again, walking over to the two dead creatures. He piles them together and using his boot to clear the brush from around the bodies. The last thing he needs is a forest fire on top of everything else. He does the same for the remains of the last victim, lighting the body with only a little more ceremony.

Sam squirms, trying to get away from Dean. "Let go!" he protests.

"You're in enough trouble already," Dean hisses, harsh tone contradicting the tender, but firm grip he's got around Sam's waist. He pulls Sam practically onto his lap.

Sam huffs, but he knows he's going nowhere. The brothers huddle together, sharing warmth as the night wind picks up again.

In the light of the dying fires, John gathers their equipment. He glances up at the night sky, orienting himself and guessing the time.

When he's ready, he goes over to the boys. "Come on," he says simply and the boys scramble to their feet.

It's a quiet walk back to the car. Sam's disconcerted to find his father holding his hand tightly. He wants to protest, but one look at his father's determined face and he thinks better of the idea.

_Guess the kid does have some sense of__self-preservation, _John thinks grimly. It's dark and Sam is stumbling on the roots and brambles as he tries to keep up with Dad's longer legs. The third time it happens, John simply picks him up, barely breaking stride.

"I can WALK," Sam squeaks.

"Hush," John says calmly, ignoring the pout until they get to the car. He sets Sam on his feet and empties his load into the trunk. Dean follows suit, watching warily as his father starts to lecture at his younger brother.

"Do you have ANY IDEA…" John starts, cutting himself off abruptly and turning Sam by the arm instead, giving him 20 hard swats on his behind. "I told you to stay in the car!" he says fiercely.

Sam bursts into tears, hand going back to protect the sensitive area from further assault.

"Get in the car," John orders impassively. Sam scrambles tearfully to obey and John closes the door firmly behind him, learning tiredly for a brief moment against the car and letting out a deep breath.

He catches Dean's eye as the twelve-year-old closes the trunk and nods for him to join Sammy in the back. He moves around to the driver's seat.

As soon as Dean's in, Sammy squirms over to lay a miserable head in his lap, taking pressure off his warm and stinging behind, still hiccupping brokenly. Dean looks sympathetic, but just strokes the boy's longish curls like he was petting a cat, saying nothing.

John's coming down from the adrenaline high of the pure terror his son recently put him through and decides they would all be able to deal a little better if they had some food in their stomachs. He pulls into a Burger King drive-through.

"What do you boys want?" He asks.

"Cheeseburger." Dean responds.

"Sammy?"

Sam's looking mutinous as he snips, "nothing."

"Cheeseburger or chicken strips, bud?" John asks, not giving Sammy that option.

"I'M NOT HUNGRY!" Sam shouts, frustrated and close to tears again.

"We can pull over and take care of that attitude any time, young man," John threatens, jaw clenched in frustration. He catches Sam's eyes in the rearview mirror. Sam drops his gaze quickly, appalled by the prospect but maintaining a stubborn silence.

John orders him chicken strips and gets them all chocolate shakes. Low blood sugar makes them all cranky.

"Thanks Dad." Dean says quietly as John passes them back.

John drives for a while, willing the tension from his shoulder blades and take long draws of his milkshake.

* * *

When the drink are gone and there's nothing but wrappers and a few fries left of the meal, John pulls into a generic hotel parking lot, leaving the boys in the car while he goes to check in. Moments later he jogs back out with the keys, pulling up in front of their room. 

The car falls silent as the engine dies. Sam's still refusing to look at him.

"Move it." John orders, feeling very much the bad guy. They each grab a bag and head in.

Once thet're settled, John sends Dean to wash up, crooking his finger at his youngest. Reluctantly, Sam sidles up to stand beside him, but he crosses his arms stubbornly over his chest, glaring at his Dad with all his might.

"_Sam_," John says, a warning in his voice. "I've had about enough of that attitude. You do not disobey me, young man."

Sammy starts crying hot, angry tears. "I was scared!" he protests, voice shaking.

"Sammy, I need you to trust that I know best how to keep this family safe. When I give you an order, I expect it to be followed. What did I tell you before I left tonight?"

"Stay in the car," Sam says, almost inaudibly.

"So what the h- On earth were you doing showing up in the middle of a hunt?!" John demands.

"But I shot that one!" Sam says, "I helped you!"

"And I told you to get down! You could have been killed, Sammy! Do you have any idea what that would do to me and your brother?!"

"I was just trying to help!" Sam whines tearfully.

"Samuel Winchester, if you ever disobey me on a hunt again, you won't be sitting down easily for a week, is that clear?"

Not wanting to prolong the lecture, or get a preview of what that would feel like, Sam mutters a weak "yes, sir," his bottom lip protruding slightly.

"And I don't want see in more of that attitude, young man," John says, gently rubbing away the pout with his thumb. "You'll show me some respect."

"Yes, sir," Sam sighs, but he allows John to pull him into a forgiving hug, leaning in to the embrace and inwardly resolving to be a good little soldier from now on.

Dean, who's been avoiding the scene, finally emerges from the bathroom, flopping down on the bed and turning on the TV while surreptitiously checking on Sammy from the corner of his eye, glad to see he's still in one piece.

Sam curls up next to him on the bed, watching the TV with eyes that are glassy from exhaustion while John goes in to start him a bath. When the water switches off, he obediently shucks his dirty clothes and carefully lowers his sore behind into the warm water. He smells like hotel shampoo when he's done, hair damp and eyes drooping. John inspects him briefly for dirt and ticks, planting a kiss on his forehead before sending both boys to bed, letting Dean keep the TV on till the end of the movie.

By the time the older boy clicks the set off, Sam's sleeping deeply, breathing heavy, regular breaths.

"'Night Dad," Dean says softly, settling down beside his sleeping brother.

John looks up, distracted from his notes on the social behavior of Red Caps. "Good night, kiddo," he replies affectionately.


End file.
